


One of Those Nights

by radiance



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiance/pseuds/radiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>young and rich beyond his wildest dreams, ashton has it all. but he's so empty inside, completely and utterly heartbroken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those Nights

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally an english assignment, but i used the name ashton and essentially based it off ashton irwin's looks so i figured i'd post it here if any of you wanted to read it and turn it into a fic...
> 
> the assignment was to create a story chronicling a day in the life of an existentialist, and this was the result. it's completely ashton, no OFC or anything. it's not a love story, or anything of the like.

Ashton blinks his eyes open, the afternoon sun shining in through the massive window in the master bedroom. He turns onto his side and peers at the clock until he can read it: 1:25pm. His head pounds and his mouth feels dry so he gropes blindly at his bedside table, cursing his yesterday’s self for not putting a glass of water and some Advil out. Although, to be fair, he’s just glad he’s managed to end up back in his own bed this time. He sighs and rolls over, going back to sleep, putting off having to deal with reality for a little while longer.

The sun’s a bit lower in the sky now, and this time Ashton wakes up from his stomach grumbling. He rolls over again to look at the clock and this time the number’s read 4:56pm. And well. He can’t stay within the safety and comfort of his dreamland any longer; he’s really got to go to the bathroom and put some food in his stomach. He sits up slowly, his headache mostly gone but not completely, and swings his feet over the edge of the bed and plants them on the floor. The hardwood floor is chilled and helps him shake off some tendrils of sleep. When he stands fully, abandoning the covers, he scratches the back of his neck and stretches. The large window is open a crack, and cool, fall air is creeping into the bedroom. It’s got a bit of a bite to it, the air, so Ashton walks over to the window and glares at it a moment before pulling it shut.

He stands and looks out the glass, looking out over the green backyard that opens up to a small stretch of private beach. The water is a dark blue as it laps against the sandy shore and the sky floats overhead in paler hues. Ashton tries to remember the last time he went for a swim, but can’t. The floor is still cold beneath his feet, so he turns slowly and makes his way over to the walk-in closet and goes inside. He turns away from the side with women’s clothing, rummaging through his own side until he finds an old sweater and a pair of sweatpants. He pulls the pants on over his black boxers, pulls them up so they sit on his hips, and tugs the sweater over his head.

As he exits the small room, he takes a moment to look to his left, at the untouched side. He recognizes her perfume, and he reaches and pinches the fabric of her favourite sweater between his fingertips. After a couple seconds, he lets it fall from his grasp and heads out of the closet and the bedroom, taking a second to grab his cell phone from the bedside table. He keeps the lights off; it’s bright enough outside and there are enough windows that it’s not too dark inside the house. He walks past picture frames of a happy couple mounted on the walls of the hallway, but doesn’t look at them. He hasn't given them a proper look in weeks. He comes out into a large, modern kitchen; black cupboards, stainless steel appliances, granite countertops… the works. He figures it would be a lot more appreciated if he could actually cook anything. He leans against the countertop and fishes his phone out of his pocket, already dialing the number of the pizza delivery place he knows by heart. He rattles off his order, the same one as always, before hanging up.

He takes a moment to grab a glass of water and toss back several pills to satisfy the pounding in his head and then walks into the TV room. Each room is tastefully decorated even though Ashton’s never really had an eye for design. The whole house is modern, sharp angles and black and white, but it manages to feel cozy. Or, at least it did. Now it’s just cold and much too big, and Ashton's tired of it all. Ashton sits down on the white leather couch, reaches for the remote and flicks the TV on. The screen comes to life on some brand new reality show on MTV that Ashton really couldn’t be bothered about it, but it’s just interesting enough it can hold his attention so he sits back and lets himself be lulled into the wonderful bliss of reality TV.

There’s a knock on the door much sooner than he was expecting, the sound jolting him out of his brief escape. Normally it takes a bit longer for the delivery cars to get all the way out to his house. He supposes there isn’t much traffic – mild perks of living isolated. No neighbours to tell him to shut his music off when he’s got it blasted in the early hours of the morning, when sleep won’t come and his thoughts won’t let dead dogs lie. He shakes his head a bit and stands slowly, keeping the TV on so it’s not so quiet, he can't deal with silence; it suffocates him. He makes his way over to the door and opens it and there’s a teenage boy standing in front of him, shorter by a few inches. The teen is all limbs, gangly and awkward, and he raises his eyebrows at Ashton, and oh, well. He supposes he’s just been staring at the boy, probably creeping him out at least a bit. He hasn’t been face to face with someone in a while, the crowd from last night not exactly counting as he’d be damned if he could recall a single face, even before he blacked out.

“Sir?” the teen says, holding out the pizza a bit. Ashton blinks.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Hi, sorry, how much is it?” he asks, just for the sake of making conversation, as pathetic of an attempt as it is. It’s always the same price.

“Fifteen dollars even,” the boy says, and Ashton reaches into his pockets for his wallet before remembering he’s left it on the counter.

“Just a second, yeah?” and he leaves the door open and walks back into the kitchen and plucks his wallet from the countertop. He pauses a moment and surveys it, deciding that he should really at the very least, go into town and pick up a few freezer meals to cook. God knows he’s funneled enough money into the small pizza joint in town to keep them going for at least another year solely on his funds by now. He’s jolted out of his thoughts when he hears the boy clear his throat, and he mutters a swear under his breath. Time and time again, caught up in his own thoughts. He takes his wallet and heads back to the front door. He holds out a twenty and tells the kid to keep the change before taking the pizza and shutting the door. He sits at the dark-wood polished table, set for one, the other chair neatly tucked in, and opens the box. He doesn’t even bother to grab a plate as he picks up a slice and takes a bite.

Two slices later, the grease isn’t sitting well and Ashton’s feeling nauseous. He stands up from the table and makes his way to the bathroom, hand rubbing his stomach over his hoodie as he pushes open the door. He kneels down in front of the black toilet with a gold handle, the one aspect of the bathroom he had chosen, and waits. Thirty seconds pass, a minute, and he’s still staring down into the black abyss of the toilet bowl. Nothing’s coming up, no matter how sick he’s feeling. He sighs and pushes himself up and over to the sink. He fits his head under the tap and turns it on, gulping down several mouthfuls of water to make it come up easier. He wets his fingers before kneeling back down in front of the toilet. He sighs before opening his mouth and sticking his fingers in, fingertips pushing deeper and coaxing his stomach. The meager contents of his stomach come rushing up almost instantaneously as he coughs and sputters, eyes watering a bit and nose running. He keeps going until he doesn’t feel sick anymore, then wipes his fingers off on the toilet paper and dabs at his eyes and nose before flushing the whole mess away.

He stands back up and washes his hands before heading back to the kitchen.

.x.

He’s sat back at the table, staring blindly with his head in the clouds. The large house is quiet, unbearably so, so Ashton fixes it. He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens up a blank message.

_Party at mine tonight – bring whoever you want_

He sends the message out to his whole contact list, and looks at the small digits across the top of his phone screen. It’s just after seven, and that’s a little shocking to Ashton. The quick passage of time is something that Ashton figures that he should have gotten used to by now, but each time he checks the clock and some vast, seemingly immeasurable amount of time has passed, and he thinks briefly of his youth dwindling away.

He doesn’t want to grow old; he knows that. He’s always felt uneasy around the elderly, even so much so that his brief relationship with his grandparents had been strained. He’s unsure if he’d be able to handle looking in the mirror each day, watching age take a firmer hold on him every time. And it’s all inevitable, which is perhaps what bothers him the most. He’s got no choice in the matter, none at all. Age comes, you change, and then you die. He thinks absently about a pretty face framed with dark hair, forever etched into his mind with fondness.

It scares him a bit to think that he isn’t sure whether he misses her or envies her and her eternal youth.

He’s still got morbid thoughts running through his mind when his phone vibrates and his eyes flash down to the bright screen. The name belongs to a person he hasn’t had a proper conversation with in years, but his confirmation of his presence at Ashton’s party that night still stands. And with that, he takes a look down at himself, hand rubbing along the light shadow of stubble dusting his jaw, and heads back towards his bedroom, thinking of a shower.

.x.

The first of his guests arrive at half eight, coming in a group of seven and bearing gifts of alcohol. He greets them politely, introduces himself to several new faces, and welcomes them into his home. He didn’t miss, when the new people walked in, the widened eyes and not-so-subtle nudges as they take in the truly massive house. He knows what they’re thinking; the less diplomatic people coming right out and saying it, “you’re not even twenty, and this is where you live?” One of the group, a girl from his high school, named Mia gives him an intent look.

“Ashton… how’ve you been?” the question is small talk on surface level, but her searching eyes suggest she’s asking about more than just his day to day life. He pastes a charming smile – oh how he’s gotten good at those – and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’ve been well thank-you,” he says easily.

“I mean, all things considered, it must be so har-” Ashton raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, and she falls quiet. He knows she’s well-meaning, but if he’s being honest, he’s too sober for this conversation. She gives him another lingering look before stepping around him and walking into the kitchen where there’s the gentle hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Ashton adjusts his simple black v-neck and picks a stray thread off of his skinny jeans. He exhales heavily, and curves his lips into an easy smile again before heading back into the kitchen to join his guests.

An hour later, there are over fifty people, and somebody’s hooked up their iPod to his sound system. The music is blaring and bass is pounding through the house, and Ashton’s having trouble walking. He’s got a beer clutched in his hand, he’s lost count of how many he’s had, and he floats from group to group, engaging in idle drunk conversations before moving on to the next person. It’s been ages since he’s had this many people in his house, and he’s enjoying the human presence. It doesn’t feel so big, so cold, and so empty.

He knows he’s drunk when he thinks he sees her across the living room. He pushes through the crowd anyways, and she’s moved, now leaning against the wall just outside of the bedroom. He’s chasing memories, but his head’s not sober enough to process that; he just sees her face and suddenly he’s got tunnel vision. He makes it to where she stood, pushing past people and couples in the darkened hallway until he’s standing alone, staring into his bedroom. She's gone. As always. Disappeared into the depths of the house and the memories it holds. He wants to cry, he’s so frustrated and just completely heartbroken, so subconsciously he pulls back and punches the wall to his right hard, so he can focus on that pain instead. At least he knows that's real. His hand stings and he calls out a harsh swear, the word lost in the noise of the crowd and beat of the song as his knuckles throb. He can feel his heart beating in time, synchronized with the pulses of pain travelling up his arm and the heavy bass that’s vibrating the floorboards under his sock-clad feet. He cradles his hand to his chest and walks slowly into his room, sitting on the edge of the bed that faces the wall with the window set into it.

It’s well into the evening but the room is alight; there’s a full moon looming ominously close to the black water, and it’s silent light shines brightly into the room. His attention flickers down to his hand in his lap and he peers down at it, vision blurring a bit. He sees small beads of blood decorating his knuckles and he wipes at them. Red smears smudge the back of his hand and his left fingers are tinged red. He’s absorbed, watching more blood gather on his knuckles, so he doesn’t realize that he’s no longer alone in the room. He doesn’t even give a start when someone sits beside him on the bed. He slowly looks up with unfocused eyes, staring at the face of the newcomer until he can recognize the face and put a name to it. Calum. He tries to think of the last time he saw him, and vaguely remembers flashing lights and sweaty bodies and that’s all his mind will give him. He tries to sort it into the “before” or “after” time, but he can’t even manage that. He’s a handsome boy, with dark features and hair that glints raven black in the night.

“Ashton,” he says quietly, and surprisingly Ashton can hear him easy over the music. Ashton nods to show that he’s heard him.

“You seem like you could use a pick me up,” he suggests, and he pulls out a familiar small bag out of his jeans pocket. Ashton’s no stranger to the double edged sword he’s being offered, but he’s walked the line enough times he’s figured he’s well enough at it now. And either way, he could use a high right now, boost him out of the day-in, day-out morbid routine he’s had for the past while. He nods, again, and Calum smiles beside him and claps him on the back. Ashton sits calmly as Calum drags over the small table beside his bed, and Ashton has half a mind to protest, because that’s _her_ table, but Calum’s already getting out a switchblade from his pocket and dumping out the white dust onto the tabletop. He breaks up the smaller chunks with the blade before forming a neat white line. He sits back and holds a straw that’s been cut in half out to Ashton with an almost manic looking smile. Ashton looks at the vivid white line, contrast made more prominent in the moonlight and grins. The music seems almost muted, faded into the distance, as he licks his lips, staring down at the tabletop. 

He scoots over and leans down, holding the straw to his nose and in a smooth go, snorts it. It burns and Ashton’s eyes are watering, but it picks him up lovingly almost instantly. His hand doesn’t hurt anymore and the music is pounding back at full force. He stands up quickly and stalks the over to the window, throwing it open, and letting out a hiss at the freezing air that nips at his skin. He feels alive now, more so than he has in weeks. He hears Calum let out a hoot behind him and whirls around. Calum rolls his shoulders and stands up, dropping the straw onto the table. He claps Ashton on the back.

“Consider the rest a party gift, enjoy,” he murmurs, and leaves the room before Ashton can say anything else. The rest of the bag is sat on the table still, waiting for him so invitingly, so he takes a seat again. He sets up another line and picks up the straw, ducking down and his nose burns again, eyes watering. He inhales deeply, eyes fluttering shut, and when he opens them, _she’s_ there, right in front of him. She raises a hand and reaches for him and Ashton leans forward, anticipating her touch against his cheek. He leans so far he nearly falls of the bed, and when he looks for her again, she’s gone. A fleeting image, not nearly enough. It's never enough.

So he lines up again, and again, and again, until she’s lying back in the bed with him, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. 

He’s higher than he’s ever been in his life, but his limbs feel like stone, weighed down into the bed. His eyelids are heavy, so he lets them fall shut, because he realizes can see her just as clearly in his mind. His heart is pounding wildly, and everything around feels heightened. He feels the pulse of the music as it rips through the air, the freezing air, but Ashton can’t move, so he lays on the bed with the ghostly impression of his lover beside him as his heart races the clock.

Time passes just as fast when he’s trapped in his mind, and the hours melt away. His heartbeat rises and falls, kick starting into a sprint and then fading to a slow beat, so slow that the time in between each dull thud seems like eternity. His eyes blink open, and when they do, the borders of his vision have blackness creeping in. The music's gone now, disappeared with the people, but she’s calling to him, his name the sweetest it’s ever sounded, so he doesn’t fight the darkness and lets it swallow him whole.

His heartbeat stutters in his chest as he closes his eyes.

.x.

The next day dawns into a cloudy morning, fades into a cool afternoon. Dark blue water laps lazily against the shore outside the still open window. The room is freezing cold, and the house is quiet. Everything is still.

The clock reads 1:25pm.

 


End file.
